


can i be happy now? (let me believe)

by pen_light



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Castiel Whump, Dying Castiel, M/M, Season/Series 09, Season/Series 10, boy meets world inspired, cas is dying and its christmas, christmas at the end, i didnt check to see if dates match, idk how to tag, set during the mark of cain era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-07
Updated: 2017-12-07
Packaged: 2019-02-11 16:08:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12938856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pen_light/pseuds/pen_light
Summary: Christmas Eve truly bustled in the day. Come afternoon and people were scurrying around getting last minute presents, ingredients, setting up with old friends, traveling, and all in all, preparing for the big night and day to come.Back at the bunker, there was an incredible reversal of energies. Not a soul roamed about the halls. Not Dean, not Sam, not Castiel.Christmas Eve was lively at the night. The lights shone and flickered beautiful, holding the onset of cheer and happiness rather than death and ghosts. Trees stood tall and strong ordained with either snow, tinsel, ornaments, lights, or all together, topped with angels all across.On the road, Sam and Dean were racing, practically speeding. Both of them were anxious, filled with anticipation.On the streets, Castiel was running, looking around frantically. He was anxious, filled with worry.Christmas Eve meant Christmas. And for all three of them, that particular Christmas was to be one of happiness.Time was ticking. Anxiety was thrumming. And the boys were running.alternatively; Cas' grace is dying, the boys are worried, there's a child involved, and it's Christmas





	can i be happy now? (let me believe)

**Author's Note:**

> song: happy now by bon jovi
> 
> hello!
> 
> i wrote this fic for the holiday mixtape challenge :D. it was inspired by eric and tommy in boy meets world, and took a supernatural turn lol  
> honestly this was supposed to be only 2k so im sorry if there are parts that are 'muddled'
> 
> it is set in the grey area where dean has the mark of cain. i highly doubt this is canon timeline compliant but oh well. i didnt have time to verify the timeline. so if anything, this is in an alternate universe. there isnt a set plot or anything bc this follows the whole progression where cas is struggling and lost bc of his grace and dean is in the same boat bc of the mark. so if things are fast or like alsdjlaksdj, then take it in that sense plz lol
> 
> i hope you like it

Muddled. Everything was muddled and confused. Castiel was muddled and confused. 

 

For weeks, the fallen angel’s grace—technically not his but the stolen grace— had been failing him. Crowley’s replacement wasn’t enough to last him as long as Theo’s grace had. No, this one burned out much quicker than the other, at a speed that was both alarming and worrying. It even left the self sacrificial Castiel with an inkling of anxiety. 

 

Au contraire to Castiel’s situation, Sam and Dean were faring well. Well, as well as a Winchester could be. Sam was elated to have his brother, some form of his brother, back from his death and his demon days. Dean was simply relieved to see progress in his condition. His once thought hopelessness was long on its way of leaving as the human cure managed to sate the Mark long enough. The two were happy, relatively, for the while. 

 

In some cases, however, Castiel saw the glimpses where Dean’s insecurities, worries, fears, and inner monsters kicked. Whether it be due to the Mark or not, Castiel was surprisingly and suddenly very aware of the ups and downs of the older hunter’s mood. 

Blame it on the angel’s newly developing humanity, Castiel felt the ambiance of the spikes, finally understand the unspoken behind them. The happiness Dean tended to feel was rarely lasting, always hindered by doubt. 

 

“Cas,” Sam called out from within the bunker. The angel looked towards the general area of the source of the sound, not moving his body from the nook he was perched in. The book in his hands (Mark of Cain related) remained forgotten momentarily as the angel waited for the incoming footsteps to near him. 

 

“Yes, Sam?” 

 

The younger Winchester slowed his pace as Castiel came into view. He flashed an unconscious smile, a gesture that Castiel returned faintly. 

 

“Hey,” Sam neared. “Dean found a case.” The boy cleared his throat. “And he wanted to head out.”

 

Castiel shut the book. He shifted. Sam raised his hands and began to protest. 

 

“No no,” Sam started, smiling awkwardly when Castiel stilled and cocked his head in confusion. “He uh… He uh wanted to go alone.”

 

“That’s not a good idea,” Castiel’s gruff voice answered slowly. 

 

Sam closed his eyes with a nod. “Look, I know. That’s why I’m going with him. But that means someone needs to stay behind and continue the research.”

 

Castiel, understanding, relaxed back into his nook. Sam grinned lightly, patting Castiel on the back of his neck.

 

“It’s a simple salt and burn,” Sam reassured. “We’ll be back soon, give or take how fast Dean drives.” 

 

Castiel shook his head, reaching for the book he was researching with prior. “Be careful.”

 

Sam snorted. 

 

 

 

 

The thing with depleting grace is that it is far more harmful and dangerous than simply taking out the grace directly from an angel. Removing grace renders an angel with a fatal injury that cannot be healed to due its newfound humanness. Depleting grace renders an angel to a wallowing, swallowing feeling that was as thought consuming as anxiety. Moreover, as in Castiel’s situation, if said dying grace were to be foreign to an angel, then the effects of the burning out, the actual action of burning out, were far worse to the point that it would be absolutely be deadly. 

 

Not that it mattered much to Castiel. Ever the self sacrificial one, such a situation was burdening to have to deal with. Castiel found it to be much easier to deal with the more important (or, as he saw it, the ‘actually’ important) matter on hand: Dean and the Mark of Cain. 

 

It’s this importance that the fallen angel had placed on the matter that caused the vague swallowing guilt in the back of his head while he spent his time along the far end of a bar’s countertop, indulging in cheap, either tasteless or far too tasteful drinks. The emotion would have been far more intense and real if Castiel was sober, but of course that wasn’t the case. 

 

Head in his right hand and his tall beer glass in his other, the angel sighed, his posture slouched and tired. Tired. He was tired. Whether it be due to actual physical exhaustion or mental exhaustion or to his sickness, Castiel did not know. 

 

And frankly he did not care. 

 

He was tired. He was frustrated. 

 

Years of decisions—drastically life changing decisions—were finally taking a toll on the poor celestial. They were spirally together at the moment where Castiel wasn’t met with anything in the form of a decision. All he had was one task: Cure Dean Winchester of the Mark of Cain. 

 

“Dean Winchester is saved,” Castiel muttered under his breath. He chuckled drily with the shake of his head. “Dean Winchester is saved,” he repeated, drinking another sip from his cup. “Dean Winchester is…” 

 

Castiel sighed. There was no point. Dean Winchester was saved, a statement that hardly remained true. To save someone and to ensure their safety are two very different entities. Castiel, a millennium old being, had never had to deal with differentiating either or. Orders were orders, and to him, neither situation was different. 

 

Oh, how wrong he was. 

 

Dean Winchester was saved. Once. Castiel, given all his credit, was kept at the hunter’s toes, a security asset for the angels. It didn’t take long for the entranced angel (the hunter’s soul was quite the sight in Hell) to fall even harder for the human who was his mission, shifting sides. 

 

Dean Winchester was saved, and Castiel had every intent to ensure that. He remained to keep that ideology to himself, the morale extending to Sam as well as his love for the Winchesters grew and grew, endangering him more than anyone else. 

 

Dean Winchester was saved, and Castiel failed to keep it as such. Dean still managed to suffer with grief and pain, nose diving deep into the dark hole he had the tendency to refer to in the worst times. Dean will managed to have to endure cuts and bruises and severe injuries all of which Castiel tried to heal, angered that he wasn’t present to prevent them. Dean still managed to have to face tough, impossible choices, eventually leading him to most recent ingenious: the Mark of Cain. 

 

“Dean Winchester wasn’t saved,” Castiel mumbled sadly, his frustration turning more into anguish and desperation. The angel cocked his head. “And I cannot seem to do anything about that.”

 

Perhaps it was the alcohol, the liquid drug running through Castiel’s newly registered veins, the intoxication finally reaching his brain, that was looping the phrase over and over, pushing Castiel further into the fire of emotions he very expertly and knowingly ignored. 

 

Perhaps it was Castiel’s human characteristics that were causing this desperate state. 

 

Or, perhaps it was simply Castiel. 

 

The angel neither knew nor cared. 

 

He was far more interested in his drink that night. 

 

 

 

 

Impulsive decisions normally worked their way for Dean Winchester. Having been trained all his life, his instincts were fine tuned for them to be reasonable enough for him to depend on— most of the times. Of course, there were hiccups, and Dean simply ignored them. 

 

The Mark of Cain wasn’t a hiccup that Dean could ignore. To begin with, it was more or less one of Dean’s more informed, spur of the moment decisions. Yet, even then, it proved to be a hiccup. It wasn’t a paved over, run over speed bump that Dean could simply look over without experiencing much of a jolt or bump. It was a defined, protruding speed bump. It was a persisting hiccup, or, in the more relevant case, an overbearing feeling of nausea, something that Dean hated extremely but could also push down. But, as it normal is with the feeling to throw up, pushing the bile down is exhausting and draining, and Dean was reaching the point where he was beginning to question whether it would be okay to just let go. 

 

Muddled. Muddled seemed like a proper term to define the situation. Dean was muddled. 

 

There were only two coping mechanisms that Dean Winchester knew to use. He used them for any scenario such as a celebration, loss, defeat, dead end, etc. Alcohol was his best friend that encouraged him on. Hunting was his more reasonable, work place best friend that distracted him from his personal problems. 

 

With Sam and Cas deadbeat on wracking their heads and ruining their daily patterns to find a cure for the Mark, Dean Winchester needed a distraction. Alcohol would encourage the Mark (as he found out through his demonic experience). It wasn’t a risk he was willing to take around Sam or Cas, or anyone for that matter. 

 

So hunting it was. Unfortunately for Dean, it seemed as Sam and Cas were too pent up with finding a cure to let the research go to accompany Dean to places. 

 

And Dean wasn’t in the mood to go alone. 

 

 

 

 

It was one particularly long day. Neither Sam nor Dean were in the mood to sleep, both too wound up from different sources. Sam from the lack of information and Dean from the lack of anything for that matter. 

 

Cas coughed. Dean didn’t pay attention. 

 

Cas coughed again. Dean paused momentarily and frowned. He went back to ‘work’. 

 

Cas slept. And Dean had the inkling of doubt, of worry, of concern for his friend. 

 

Sam took him to the side, hushed, fast spoken words with many sighs and head holding in the midst of it all. 

 

“Sammy?” Dean asked with a frown. Sam looked behind him into the empty room. Dean copied the motion. “What’s going on?”

 

“It’s Cas,” Sam sighed.

 

Dean’s brows furrowed even more. “What about Cas?”

 

“He’s not…” Sam tired to choose his words correctly. “…well.”

 

“Yea,” Dean scoffed. “I’ve noticed. Dude’s been coughing. And sleeping?”

 

“Well, the sleeping is kinda normal by now, but yea, he’s been coughing,” Sam said. He paused. “Not as badly as before though.”

 

“Before?”

 

“When we were searching for you when…when you were a…”

 

“A demon?”

 

“Yeah. A demon,” Sam looked up awkwardly. Deanmon was still relatively emotionally fresh. He reassembled himself to get back on topic. “He was coughing way more. I remember this one conversation where he couldn’t stop coughing at all.”

 

“What the hell?” Dean looked towards the direction of Castiel’s room in thought. “Why the hell would an angel cough?”

 

“If the angel is dying,” Sam answered solemnly. Dean’s eyes widened. 

 

“Dying?”

 

Sam closed his eyes, breathing deeply. “Yeah, dying. I think the stolen grace is turning on him.”

 

Dean’s eyes hardened. Sam shook his head. 

 

“Dean, what do we do?”

 

Forget needing a distraction, Dean needed a solution. The Mark of Cain had already begun its loud humming, resonating with Dean’s growing frustration, worry, and anxiety. Dean needed a solution—for himself and Castiel. The hunter looked at his younger sibling sincerely. 

 

“We get his grace back.” 

 

 

 

 

Castiel stumbled out of the bar, his whole normal stature crumbling under the effects of all the alcohol he consumed. The fallen angel’s footsteps were staggered and clumsy. There was a buzzing in his head, one not ideal for a night out’s drinking. Then again, the celestial had consumed beers and shots at the amount that he would have drank when he was a full angel. At his deteriorated state, that amount of alcohol was absolutely unsafe. 

 

Castiel had to lean against the red brick wall to the side when a sudden spur of vertigo over took him. Holding his head and groaning softly, Castiel could feel his essence—including the stolen grace—tether, strained as it tried to hold on and heal, keeping a sense of otherworldliness in the angel as his body tried to fight the overwhelming amount of alcohol. It barely worked and, given a few minutes, Castiel was up and running again—running being a subjective assessment of the state. 

 

His vision was blurry when Castiel came to. It remained blurry, giving no signs for giving out and clearing up. Something, a fleck of green, a flash of brown, the distinct brown Castiel knew to love, a fade of patterned red and black, whooshed right past his vision. Castiel, muddled all over, pushed off of the wall and reached for the figure, barely muttering a name underneath his breath. The figure came back and Castiel got a better look, the face still unclear. 

 

But he could see freckles. And if he could see freckles, then it had to be. It had to be him. 

 

“Dean,” the fallen angel called out groggily. The figure didn’t shift, and in his muddled state, Castiel made no effort to consider any other options. His trust wavering and flickered and reached out for the human in front of him. In that brief moment of vulnerability, the bits and pieces of burning grace withered out, failing Castiel yet again as he fell to the ground, darkness overtaking him. 

 

Castiel expected cold, rough, hard concrete and was met with soft, gentle, small arms. Then, everything went black. 

 

 

 

 

The Mark of Cain didn’t have that much of pull on Dean’s influence as many thought. It simply reacted to them, bringing out the truth behind the hunter’s facade. Just as it was as the two brothers sped on the highway towards their intended destination. 

 

“How sure are we that this is going to work?” The Impala driver asked, his eyes trained on the dark roads. He was doing his best to ignore the hum in the back of his head, whether it be through the loud music or coversation. 

 

“Not sure,” Sam replied simply. “But Hannah seemed to actually care about Cas.”

 

Dean snorted. “Hasn’t every angel we’ve met?”

 

Sam didn’t say anything as he thought. Within a chorus and a verse, the younger broke his temporary silence. “She’s the best bet we’ve got.”

 

Dean gripped on the steering wheel tightly. “I know.”

 

 

 

 

Human safety was complicated. Simply put. Any other form of safety wasn’t that complicated. As long as the living remained living, all can be counted as ‘Mission Accomplished’. And Castiel was content in that. 

 

Tasked with human safety, the angel had no idea what he had signed himself for. Physical safety wasn’t much of a problem. Castiel was ready to go to hell and back to ensure the security of humankind, and well, more specifically, of Dean Winchester. 

 

_Dean Winchester is saved._

 

Human safety involves more than physical safety. It involves emotional security as well, the insurance that even through the fire, the burns will heal. Castiel was never used to the thought of the burns. He hardly batted an eye to them. The fire was all he needed to concentrate on, splitting the flames, dousing the heat, and pulling out the bodies. That’s how he managed to make it past all his garrison in the first place. That’s how he made it through the pits and deeps of Hell. 

 

That’s how he survived saving a petty hunter named Dean Winchester. 

 

Fire. That’s all Castiel remembered. Fire and Dean. Two elements meshed into each other, two elements slowly but surely becoming one.

 

Fire. Castiel removed the fire. Castiel pulled Dean out. And Castiel left himself behind, unbeknownstly healing the soul of the Righteous Man. 

 

Burns disappeared and the soul in Castiel’s angelic grasp glimmered. Enthralled, the angel’s grace flew into the soul, enveloping the scars and healing. Fire raged around him, only burning his own true form. 

 

“Dean Winchester must be saved,” the dying angel grumbled into a soft surface. “Dean Winchester must b—“ A hand came down to Castiel’s forehead, the small, cold knuckles brushing against the clammy, heated skin. Castiel frowned at the unfamiliar gesture. 

 

Castiel may have healed the burns. But he never expected for them to run deeper than the surface. 

 

Out on Earth, Dean Winchester struggled. He struggled greatly. He never showed it, but from his years in Hell to his brother’s demonic scandals to the impending apocalypse, Dean Winchester struggled. And Castiel didn’t help at all. 

 

Come to think about it, Castiel hasn’t helped with it much, has he? At the thought, the delirious angel frowned, letting out a pitiful sound. Of course, he had helped. There had to be an instance where he did. 

 

Fire. Fire flashed through Castiel’s mind. Fire flashed through Castiel’s body. Fire was all that remained. 

 

No, he never helped. He healed the burns—once. But the fire was still there. The burns were still there. He was still only working on the fire. Dean Winchester was still struggling. The soul that was so ethereal in his grasp was convulsing and suffering and Castiel’s grip on it was lost. 

  
Castiel wasn’t helping.

 

Fire and burns. 

 

“Burning,” Castiel slurred. Immediately, something incredibly cold came to his forehead. 

 

The angel shivered. 

 

 

 

 

Sam and Dean left the Impala, armed with appropriate weaponry. Out in the field, next to an abandoned warehouse, Hannah stood, awaiting. Behind her, two angels were gripping onto a prisoner, whose head was blocked with a cloth bag. 

 

“This better work,” Dean practically growled. 

 

Hannah gave the hunter a hesitant grin. “I hope so.”

 

She turned, walking to the side, allowing Dean and Sam proper view of the prisoner. Both brother readjusted their holds on their guns, assuming proper fighting stances. 

 

One of the angels reached out and removed the bag, revealing the irritating face of an incredibly infuriating Metatron. 

 

At the crooked smile, the Mark of Cain roared.

 

 

 

 

Castiel came to eventually. His head lolled around weightlessly as the angel groaned against the throbbing pain in his head. Instead of staying in his lying position, he tried to get up, immediately being shot down by soft hands pushing him down. Eyes shooting open, Castiel jumped into a defensive position unsuccessfully. Instead of looking intimidating, the angel looked sick. 

 

“Easy there, tiger,” a little child wearing green flannel said, hands raised to show where they were. Approaching Castiel slowly, he coaxed the frightened man to sit back down on the bench they had been resting on. 

 

Castiel frowned in confusion. “Who are you?” He croaked, his gruff voice cracking. Swallowing against his dry throat, Castiel tried to repeat the question again for better clarity, only to stopped by the child. 

 

“Eric,” Eric replied. “My name is Eric. What’s yours?”

 

Castiel’s brows furrowed even more. He cocked his head to the side as he analyzed the human in front of him. Mustering whatever mojo he could (which was notably missing from the day before), the angel tried to look into the kid’s form on the ethereal plane. He blinked. The kid was definitely human. And there was no hint of other present or past supernatural beings in the faint, growing soul. 

 

“Castiel,” He whispered, bringing himself to stare into the smaller one’s green—really green—eyes. “I’m Castiel.”

 

“Cas…tiel?” Eric tried, testing the name on his tongue. The kid smiled, bringing his hand to shake. Eyes flitting between the kid and his hand, Castiel hesitantly went to grip the kid’s hand, following Eric’s lead as they shook hands slowly. Eric’s hands were incredibly cold, Castiel noted. 

 

“So, how are you Castiel?” Eric asked, leaning over to study the angel better. “Can I call you Cas?”

 

There was something about the child, something that Castiel couldn’t pinpoint, that was soothing and reassuring. Calming, per se. Eric had green eyes, a green flannel, tattered, wide legged jeans, brownish hair that swept to the sides and up to the sky, and faint freckles, and Castiel couldn’t see the source of the familiarity in the boy. 

 

“Cas?” Eric asked cautiously when he didn’t receive a reply for a few moments. Castiel blinked, ripping his eyes away from the boy to halt his observations and focus in on himself. 

 

The angel forehead pinched. He wasn’t feeling too well. Not at all. There was a sick feeling in his stomach, a weakness in his body, a lightness to his head that was completely contradicted by the heaviness and pain that throbbed against his skull. With a sharp, shooting pain in the back of his eyes, Castiel squeezed them shut and leaned over, groaning into his hands. 

 

“Not well, then,” Eric muttered. “Hold up, I’ll be right back.” 

 

Castiel, in no condition to reply, hummed in acknowledge before proceeding to grit his teeth. He focused on himself and tried to control the grace that was suddenly flaring up, glowering against his body, intensifying the symptoms even more. While it wasn’t causing them, it was certainly an enhancer. Castiel took in quick, shallow breaths in an attempt to focus even more on the situation. He could control his stolen grace. He needed to control his stolen grace. 

 

But, alas, the grace was practically withered, spent. The night before must have been quite the battle for Castiel was days away from breaking down and falling apart to his death. 

 

Footsteps neared Castiel. Under normal circumstances, the angel would have immediately looked up to see who it was. Instead, he settled with remaining tense and rigid against his physical condition. 

 

“Hey, Cas,” Eric said, softly patting the angel’s back. “There’s no way to get aspirin, but I got you water. You’ve got to relax. C’mon buddy.”

 

Instantly, at those words, Castiel did relax. He let go and brought himself to look into the kid’s eyes. A certain someone flashed through his head. Shaking away the rabid, burning grace from taking over, Castiel sighed and tried to focus on reality. Glancing down at the glass of water, the angel gratefully took it. He drank it all down in about three gulps, causing Eric to chuckle a little. 

 

“You may want to slow down there, pal,” to which Castiel flushed lightly. 

 

“Thank you, Eric.” The kid waved it off. Castiel turned to properly face the kid, right away ignoring the burning nostalgia. “What happened last night?”

 

Eric blinked. “You don’t remember?” When Castiel shook his head, the kid laughed. “I mean, you were so wasted, I guess not.”

 

“Wasted?”

 

“You drank a lot of ‘too much’,” Eric answered. “And you fell, and I helped bring you here.”

 

“You brought me here?”

 

“Well, I ‘guided’ you,” Eric made air quotations. “You’re a little too big to carry.”

 

Castiel nodded, taking in his surroundings. They were present on a bench that seemed to be facing the stores on a main street. “We slept here?” 

 

“Yea,” Eric followed Castiel’s gaze, looking at the stores that were either open or just about opening. “This is the part of the street that no one checks. Anyone can sleep here overnight and not get caught.”

 

Castiel frowned and looked down at the kid. Eric had been too cold when they had shook hands. Reaching to touch the kid’s forehead, the angel closed his eyes and honed in on the boy’s physical condition. Exhaustion, cold, and hunger flashed through Castiel’s mind immediately. Then, faintly following along, a rather prolonged and strong sense of something trickled into Castiel. 

 

Loneliness and sadness. Eric was lonely and sad. 

 

Bringing his hand back, Castiel sighed. 

 

“What?” Eric asked, meeting the blue eyes that were gazing down on him. 

 

“You’re cold,” Castiel said frankly. Taking off his trench coat, the angel handed it to the boy. Paying no attention to the protest, Castiel wrapped the long overcoat around Eric. “And you’re hungry.”

 

“Thanks for the observations, Doc. Do I get a prescription?” Castiel couldn’t tell if the sarcasm was of an attempt of joking or of the intent of annoyance. 

 

“No. Unless, if you are referring to the analogy of me prescribing solutions, then I suppose you should wear warmer clothes and eat some food.”

 

Eric stared at Castiel, his green eyes shifting from between Castiel’s left and right eyes. After a moment or two, the boy snorted, shaking his head. 

 

“You’re weird, Cas,” he said with a smile. “A good kind of weird.”

 

Castiel frowned in confusion. “Thank you?”

 

“You are very welcome,” Eric said rather dramatically, topped with a bow. He stood back up. “You’ve got more questions, go on, ask them.”

 

Castiel didn’t hesitate. “Where are your parents?”

 

“In heaven.”

 

“Oh.”

 

“It’s okay”

 

Castiel nodded, looking away awkwardly. “Are you…”

 

“Homeless?” Eric took Castiel’s silence as an affirmation. “No, I live in a foster care.”  


 

“It is here?”

 

“No, I ran away,” Eric replied with a nonchalant shrug.

 

“Why would you run away? Wouldn’t they be worried?” Castiel already knew the answer, reading the sudden intense waves of loneliness and sadness that were lashing out. 

 

“I always run away around this time of the year.” When Castiel showed no sign of pushing the topic further, Eric sighed, realizing that he should at least give the slightest explanation. 

 

The kid looked off into the distance. “It’s Christmas. And I won’t be getting the one thing I want for Christmas, so why should I have to celebrate with everyone else?”  


Castiel followed the child’s gaze, meeting with a tall Christmas tree in the middle of town. “What do you want for Christmas?”

 

“It’s silly.”  


 

The angel shook his head. “No, please. I won’t think its silly.”  


 

Eric kept looking onwards. Eventually, he spoke softly, with shrug and fidgety hands. “Happiness? Maybe a family? Just a warm Christmas—both literally and figuratively.”

 

Happiness. Happiness was the emotional security that humans wanted—needed. 

 

Grace exploded in small bursts in Castiel. 

 

Fire and burns. Sadness and loneliness. Happiness and security. 

 

And the angel sighed. 

 

 

 

 

“We need him to _talk_ , Dean. Beating him up won’t make him _talk_ ,” Sam hissed. “In fact, it may hurt him to the point that he won’t talk at all.”  


Dean glared at his brother. He knew the younger had a point. But, with the frustration, worry, and stupid Mark of Cain all churning his head, fueling the man’s impulses, reasoning had left Dean’s mind. All he could think of was beating Metatron to pulp for all that he did and had done to his family. Every time he even so glanced at the scruffy, small angel (Dean hated having to consider him an angel), all Dean could remember was Sam and the trials. Castiel and his grace. Sam and Gadreel. Castiel and being human. Sam after Gadreel. Castiel suffering. Castiel dying. Castiel—

 

“I _know_ , Sam,” Dean muttered, rubbing his face. “I _know_. But you know very well that he’s not going to just talk like that. He’s too much of a dick to do that.”

 

Sam sighed, shaking his head. “I know.” He looked at his older brother, reading the exhaustion. The both of them were spent. Time was ticking and Castiel was still dying. The situation was not looking up for the Winchesters.

 

“You know what we’re going to have to do.”

 

Sam shut his eyes. “I know.”

 

“I hate it.”

 

“So do I.”

 

Dean looked back towards the abandoned warehouse room they had Metatron locked up in. “It’s for Cas. We’ve go to do this. For _Cas_.”  
  
Despite his instincts yelling at him to not to, Sam couldn’t agree more.

 

“For Cas.”

 

 

 

 

Castiel woke up again to find himself alone on bench. It only took moments for the memories to rush back in, causing the angel to breathe in a deep breath and shake his head. He was still quite weak, hindering him from reacting too strongly. Instead, Castiel slumped back into the uncomfortable, cold wooden bench, the chilly wind brushing past his unkempt hair. His tan trench coat had been returned to him by being wrapped around him to keep the angel warm. While Castiel loved the coat, had grown into the coat, he never wanted to get it back in such a manner. 

 

Eric. What a strange child. What a grown child. The manner in which the kid had carried himself and helped Castiel was way to mature for a child of his age. Castiel would give the kid an age of about 9 or 10 years, his grace being far too weak to properly identify the age. 

 

9 or 10 and Eric was like that. Happiness and a family? A warm Christmas? The loneliness and sadness? 

 

Something flared in Castiel, shooting pain through his head. _Dean Winchester must be saved._

 

“Shut up,” the angel grit out, grasping onto his head far too tightly. “Just… shut up.”

 

_Fire and burns. Happiness and security._

 

“Shut up,” Castiel pleaded. The stolen grace didn’t relent. Castiel continued to beg, the torment of the looped words spinning the dying angel’s mind out of control. 

 

Eric’s words suddenly appeared. _Happiness? Maybe a family? Just a warm Christmas—both literally and figuratively._

 

The angel finally snapped, succumbing to the grace’s twisted reality. Floating into the same dreamlike state he had induced with alcohol the night before, Castiel shut his eyes and tried to fight against his reeling thoughts. 

 

_Dean Winchester must be saved. Fire and burns. Happiness and security._ “ _Happiness? Maybe a family? Just a warm Christmas—both literally and figurati—_

 

Castiel scoffed. He voiced his thoughts, the words coming out as slurred and mumbled. 

 

“I… want to make the happiness of the entire world my responsibility,” he shook his head. “How foolish.” Sighing, the angel stared up a the blue sky. Blue as grace. “What am I supposed to do, Father? I’ve done all that I could. I’ve completed missions. I’ve taken care of humankind whenever I needed to. Yet…” The angel broke off right then, closing his eyes. The grace flared again, clutching onto the very essence that was the bright between Castiel’s physical and ethereal realm. Castiel was floating, disoriented, and completely losing himself. “No disrespect,” he slurred out. “But, why would you send that little boy? Why does that nice little boy not have parents?” Castiel thought of Eric, Castiel thought of another, familiar face. _Dean Winchester must be saved_. His questions became more forceful. “Why doesn’t that nice little boy have happiness? Why did you send me that little kid?” 

 

The wind whistled. The blue glimmered. Castiel wavered. And there was no response. Castiel smiled and shook his head. “And why do I only come to you when I am in need of something.” Blinking the angel took in a shaky breath. “Father, you shouldn’t have to take care of everything. You have done so much already.” There was a sincerity, a certain heaviness, that weighed down Castiel’s word with genuine intent. Emotions resonated through the angel, crossing from the physical realm to the ethereal plane. The grace lashed out even more, but this time Castiel wasn’t sure if it was necessarily a bad thing. He felt content and satisfied with how he was thinking. 

 

The angel basked in the warmth of the burning grace for the first time. Eric muddled with Dean in his head. While Castiel still hadn’t consciously made the connection, it was present in his mind. Eric and Dean, two similar humans, divided by just years of age. 

 

“I… will take care of this.” He continued to stare at the sky. “I can be responsible for the happiness of one little boy.” _Dean Winchester must be saved_. “I can be responsible for the happiness of one human.”

 

 

 

 

Christmas Eve truly bustled in the day. Come afternoon and people were scurrying around getting last minute presents, ingredients, setting up with old friends, traveling, and all in all, preparing for the big night and day to come. 

 

Back at the bunker, there was an incredible reversal of energies. Not a soul roamed about the halls. Not Dean, not Sam, not Castiel. 

 

Christmas Eve was lively at the night. The lights shone and flickered beautiful, holding the onset of cheer and happiness rather than death and ghosts. Trees stood tall and strong ordained with either snow, tinsel, ornaments, lights, or all together, topped with angels all across. 

 

On the road, Sam and Dean were racing, practically speeding. Both of them were anxious, filled with anticipation. 

 

On the streets, Castiel was running, looking around frantically. He was anxious, filled with worry. 

 

Christmas Eve meant Christmas. And for all three of them, that particular Christmas was to be one of happiness. 

 

Time was ticking. Anxiety was thrumming. And the boys were running. 

 

 

 

 

Castiel found Eric back on the same bench where the two of them had been. The little boy was curled in on himself, flannel clutched tightly to wrap more skin. His eyes were droopy, skin was pale, and breath was fogged up. The kid was staring ahead at the large tree in town. From the bench it was the perfect view, and Castiel had to reconsider Eric’s reasoning for choosing the bench. 

 

“Eric,” The angel approached softly. He brought his hand to hold onto the boy’s shoulder, shaking him lightly. Castiel tried not to frown at the cold practically steaming from the little boy’s body. Instead, he kept character to coax Eric into coming with him to safety just as the kid had done for him. “Eric. Come, let us go.”

 

Eric, too tired and cold to protest, followed Castiel’s gentle tugs. He fell into the embrace instantly, not moving at all when Castiel picked him up bridal style. Worry spiked in Castiel, urging him to get Eric to shelter immediately. With the kid’s condition, going to the bunker was no option. He needed to warm up before having to go on public transportation and walking ventures. 

 

On the way to the nearest motel, Castiel tried to keep Eric awake with conversation. The angel spoke of everything and anything, answering to the one or two word questions that Eric could muster. He spoke of flowers, bees, Sam, Dean, peanut butter and jelly, angels (not explicitly), Dean, and the wonders of the world. Eric smiled at each reply, nuzzling into the flap of Castiel’s trench coat that the angel had managed to wrap around the boy. 

 

Covering up and suspicion at the motel wasn’t much of a challenge, given that the motel owners were swamped with customers and requests. Castiel managed to score a small motel room with a single bed. With the warm water and the warm blankets, it was more than enough. 

 

Helping Eric bathe in warm water and then tucking him into the warmth of the bed, Castiel continuously checked for signs of sickness. Eric thankfully didn’t have hypothermia, but his body was certainly on the verge. The bath and the blankets were helping, but Castiel realized that chances for fevers and colds and other sicknesses were all fair game. 

 

He ordered chicken noodle soup with a side of Christmas cookies and hot chocolate for the small boy. Sitting back and watching the boy silently eat the food, Castiel sighed in relief. The boy’s condition was improving. 

 

_Fire. Burns._

 

Right. Physically, Eric was faring well. But, emotionally, Castiel needed to know and help. Gulping, the angel wracked his head of how to go about the situation. 

 

“You know,” Eric muttered with a cookie in his mouth. “The years before, I had a coat. Kinda like a parka.”

 

Castiel blinked. “But you do not have one this year.”

 

Eric shrugged, offering Castiel a cookie. The angel glanced down and took it, hesitantly nibbling on it. “I forgot it back at the foster place. And it was too risky to go back and get it. Plus, this year isn’t that cold.”

 

Castiel frowned. There were unsaid words in the boy’s statement, he was sure of it. Burns, right? But under the surface, right? Unable to detect anything, Castiel sighed again, this time in frustration. 

 

“Cas?” 

 

“Hmm?”

 

“Why am I here?” Eric asked. Castiel looked up to meet the boy’s green eyes. 

 

“I don’t understand.”

 

“Why did you bring me here? Why did you come back? Don’t you have somewhere to be?”

 

Castiel paused. “Do you not like it?”

 

Eric’s eyes widened as he began to stutter. “N-no. I do. I do like this.”

 

That brought a smile to Castiel’s face. Eric mirrored it, but the burning desires of curiosity were still blazing in Eric’s emerald eyes. 

 

“Why did you help me?” Castiel countered. “Why did you stay with me in the morning?”

 

Eric shrugged. “Because I felt like it. I wanted to help you.”

 

Castiel laughed, moving closer. He grabbed a cookie. “Well,” he tried to remember how Sam or Dean would speak to children, trying to emulate the soft, gentle tone. “I did too. I wanted to help you because I felt like it.”

 

At this, Eric beamed. 

 

Outside, Christmas Eve bustled. Time ticked. One Winchester’s anxiety settled. 

 

“Are you happy?”

 

Eric nodded, moving in closer to lean against Castiel’s chest, curling into the angel. “Very.”

 

 

 

 

Sam and Dean entered the bunker swiftly. There was a sense of rush, a form of urgency. 

 

Dean nodded at Sam to proceed through to the kitchen to set up some thing to eat. As Sam headed straight, Dean turned to the staircases and made his way upstair, beelining for Castiel’s room. 

 

He didn’t even bother to knock. “Cas? C’mon out. Sam and I’ve got a surp—“ He stilled. The room was vacant with little signs of occupancy. 

 

“Cas?” Dean called out louder, running into the hallway. He weighed the odds and tried to think of where the angel could be. The library was a good bet, so the hunter made his way there. 

 

Castiel wasn’t in the library. He wasn’t in the weaponry either. Sam would’ve told Dean if Castiel was in the kitchen or at the table, but even then, Dean jogged down to the two rooms to check. Castiel wasn’t at the table. 

 

“Cas coming?” Sam asked over his shoulder, flipping something in a pan. 

 

“Cas isn’t here,” Dean said simply. Sam’s flipping stopped. 

 

Sam turned to look at Dean with wide eyes. “What?” The younger’s eyes widened even more at a realization. He cursed out loud. 

 

“He must’ve found a lead,” He tried, optimistically. 

 

“Or he’s with the angels,” Dean grimly said. He grabbed for his phone. 

 

“Maybe he just went out?” Sam smiled, trying to make his reasoning more appealing. 

 

Dean shook his head, putting down the phone. “Doubt it. He’s not even answering his phone.”

 

Sam and Dean shared a look. 

 

“Track his phone,” Dean said. Sam didn’t have to be told twice. Shutting the stove off, the younger set to work. Whilst this, Dean walked around the bunker for any signs of Castiel’s disappearance. 

 

Everything was left behind. His research was put away, his bedroom neatly arranged. It was highly not Castiel-like. 

 

“Dean!” Sam yelled from downstairs. The older ran to the railings that fed to the staircase and gave a nice view of their clearing.

 

“Found him,” Sam stated. He looked quite confused. 

 

“What is it?”

 

Looking up to meet his brother’s eyes, Sam replied, “He’s still in town.”

 

Dean immediately made his way for his keys. “Where?”

 

Sam rubbed the back of his neck, making a hand motion at the laptop. “That’s just it. He’s in a motel at town.”

 

“A motel?”

 

“Yea, uh… Angel Fire Inn.”

 

“Why would h—“ Dean shook his head. “We can find that out later. C’mon. Let’s bring the dumbass home.”

 

 

 

 

Castiel fell asleep with Eric in his arms, the blanket draped haphazardly over the better half of their bodies. Eric was clutching on tight, latching onto the natural body heat that Castiel was radiating. Castiel was basking in the waves of happiness that were droning on from the boy, overtaking the blue loneliness and sadness that had been surrounding the boy before. Together, in their comfortable positions, the two fell asleep. 

 

Outside in the lobby, an incredibly worried hunter barreled in, looking around like crazy. There was an inkling in Dean’s arm, begging for attention, begging for acknowledgement. Knowing better, Dean put it to the side, his focus more intent on finding Castiel. Sam was close on his heels, just a few steps behind. They initially encountered some troubles with there receptionist, who herself was swamped with customers and calls and papers. In order to avoid a scene and to get Dean sedated, Sam sent his older brother to the “bathroom”, giving the older the opportunity to explore the halls and find their angel. 

 

With the GPS tracker beeping in his hand, Dean roamed the halls. He followed the red blip on his phone screen until he was brought in front of one: Room 918. 

 

_Knock knock._ “Cas?” There was no reply. Dean tried again. And again. 

 

“Hey,” Sam suddenly said. He was a little winded. 

 

Dean shot his brother a mocking look. “Did you run here?” The comment only earned him his brother’s iconic face. 

 

Sam dropped it after a moment. “Is Cas in there?” He pointed to the door. Dean followed the gesture. 

 

“Yeah. Or at least, he should be in there, according to his phone.”

 

“Did you knock?”

 

“No one answered.” 

 

“Try again.” 

 

The older hunter sighed, cocking his head to the side. Stepping up, Dean brought his knuckles down on the door once again.

 

Light footsteps were heard on the other side. Dean unconsciously held his breath. With a soft click, the knob turned, opening the door, revealing a small boy. 

 

“Cas?” Dean said without missing a beat. Sam nudged him in the stomach. 

 

“Not Cas,” the younger whispered. “Kid’s got green eyes.”

 

“And no trench coat,” Dean said back in a hushed manner. “Or black hair.”

 

The kid rubbed his eyes. “Cas?” He blinked till he was more attentive. “Cas? Castiel Cas?”

 

Both brothers straightened up. “You know where he is?” Sam asked, taking a step forward. 

 

The kid nodded with a yawn. He pointed to inside the room, walking to the side to make way for the brothers. “He’s sleeping. Want to come in?”

 

Dean and Sam glanced at each other briefly before taking the invitation and walking in. 

 

“Who are you guys anyways?” The kid inquired after shutting the door behind him.

 

“Sam and Dean,” Sam replied pointing who is who out. “Cas’ family.”

 

The kid scurried quickly to the bed, jumping onto it. He immediately went back to his curled in position in Castiel’s arms. “Dean?” He said. “As in Dean Winchester?”

 

At first, neither brother dared to speak, afraid they would rouse anything danger in the room. Then, the fear turned into concern as they tip toed around the bed towards Castiel’s side, each observing the calm, peaceful expression and the soft, faint breath the angel was taking. Castiel was truly asleep, that too peaceful. Sam looked between the boy and Castiel, reasoning that part of the angel’s serenity came from the boy.

 

At the delayed recognition of their Winchester name, both brothers tensed up. “Yea, that’s me,’ the older hunter stated.

 

The kid hummed, looking the hunter up and down. “Did Cas save you?”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

The small child looked up at Castiel’s sleeping face. “He kept saying ‘Dean Winchester is saved’ over and over again when I found him. He said it a few times in his sleep as well.”

 

Dean didn’t know how to answer. He turned to his brother for help at which Sam jumped forward to gently shake the angel awake. One touch and the younger Winchester was recoiling with a hiss. 

 

“He’s burning up,” Sam shot Dean a look of worry. Dean immediately looked at the kid with a glare. At the response, the child raised his hands up in defeat. 

 

“He’s been like that since last night when I found him,” the kid tried to explain. The answer was incredibly rushed and brief as it was hard to speak under Dean’s hard, cold gaze. 

 

“And where exactly did you find him?” Dean pressed. He didn’t let go of his glare. 

 

“The back alley near a bar,” the kid answered swiftly. There was a slight tremble in his hands. “H-he was completely smashed. I mean, _completely_.”

 

“The hell was he doing at a bar?”

 

The kid shrugged. “I don’t know.” 

 

Dean sighed. “What’s your name, kid?”

 

“Eric,” Eric replied. Dean nodded, opening his mouth to ask more questions. His word were interrupted by his brother speaking to Castiel. 

 

“Cas? Cas, hey,” Sam whispered urgently. He was lightly shaking the angel, pausing when the celestial stirred slightly. “Are you awake?”

 

Castiel’s eyes barely cracked open. “Sam? Dean?” The names were said weakly. 

 

“Hey, hey,” Sam ushered, helping the angel partially up. Eric sat back on his heels, watching the scene take place. 

 

“The hunt?” The angel slurred, his brows already furrowed in confusion. 

 

“Finished,” Dean chipped in, his own forehead pinched, only out of worry and not confusion. “We got you a surprise.”

 

Castiel tried to look down at Dean, but his weakness was evident. “Surprise?”

 

“Yeah, it’s back at the bunker,” Giving Sam a signal, both hunters jumped up to help the angel up. “C’mon, we’re taking you home.”

 

Castiel nodded, saying only one thing in reply. “Eric.”

 

“Eric?” Dean repeated questioningly. He looked at Sam. 

 

“You want Eric to come?” Sam inquired. Both brothers looked up at the boy on the bed, who by that point was shifting backwards shyly. 

 

Castiel nodded weakly. The child froze and smiled softly. 

 

“Umm,” Dean looked at Sam. Sam shrugged. “Okay. Okay, Eric can come.”

 

Castiel smiled. 

 

 

 

 

The bunker was finally occupied for Christmas. On the way, in the Impala, all three Winchesters, accompanied by a supposed friend crowded up in the small space. Castiel and Sam squeezed into the back, Castiel asleep with Sam consistently checking the angel for any changes of state. In the front, Eric and Dean sat, both anxiously looking back at Castiel, both for different reasons. 

 

Along the way, Dean interrogated the child with questions of how he met Castiel. Eric, afraid and slightly, strangely secure, replied fully to all the questions. At each answer, Dean would nod and shoot a look at Sam. 

 

It was when they were about to reach the bunker that Sam spoke. “Dean,” Sam said lowly and cautiously. “He’s getting worse.”

 

Dean cursed, clutching the steering wheel tighter. His foot pressed the acceleration pedal harder, causing the Impala to roar and jump forward. Eric gripped onto his seat belt tightly in worry for them all—specifically Castiel. 

 

“Worse?” He parroted, wide eyes looking at Dean and Sam for confirmation. “What do you mean worse?” There was an urgency in the kid’s voice that sent a pang through both hunters’ hearts. 

 

“Castiel is…” Dean let out a deep breath. “… not well.”

 

“Is he dying?”

 

Such a straight forward question. Dean looked back at the pale, sleeping angel. “Yes.” Such a straight forward answer. 

 

Eric gasped. “Aren’t you guys his family? Why was he alone? Especially on Christmas Eve?”

 

“We were getting a cure,” Sam replied, his own face emotional. 

 

Eric paused, taking in deep breaths. “Did you get it?”

 

“Yes,” Dean said confidently. “We have it.” 

 

Eric turned to look at Castiel better. In the lighting, Sam saw something in the boy, a strange flash of nostalgia of some sorts. He blinked it away quickly. 

 

Eric sighed and returned to his original seat belt clutching position. “Good.”

 

 

 

 

Back at the bunker, Sam and Dean led Castiel towards his bedroom, resting the angel on the mattress. Castiel didn’t even stir. 

 

“Dean, we’ve got to do it now,” Sam stated, his hand still on the angel’s forehead. “He’s still burning up.”

 

“Damnit,” Dean reached into his pocket. His hand stilled before he could take the vial out fully. Glancing at Eric, Dean pushed his hand back into the pocket. “Sam, take Eric out of the room. I’ll give Cas the cure.”

 

Sam looked like he wanted to protest. But after a moment of reconsideration, the younger deflated and nodded, ushering Eric out of the room. Eric followed the ushering with wide eyes, questioning what Dean was about to do as they left the room. Dean heard the door shut, followed by Sam’s quick, vague reply that dissipated as the walked further from the room. 

 

Dean made his way to sit right next to Castiel. It was as if the celestial was exponentially deteriorating. His skin was pale, his lips tinged blue despite running the highest fever ever. His breathing was labored and his skin was sweaty. On his arm, the Mark of Cain pained, responding to the guilt and anxiety that Dean felt. 

 

“How did we get this far?” Dean whispered. He looked away. “How did you get this far, Cas?”

 

Dean already knew. In the midst of Sam and the trials, him and the Mark of Cain, Castiel was caught in the middle. And the angel never spoke of his problems, so while each brother worked to solve each other’s, no one knew of or properly looked into Castiel’s—leading them to the angel dying. 

 

The hand that was gripping the vial was shaking. Dean took it out, hope running through his veins. With a deep breath, the hunter lifted the vial to Castiel’s lips. Unscrewing the top loose, Dean closed his eyes, sending a silent prayer to his angel, praying that what he was about to do would work. Then, he took it off. 

 

Blue wisps spilled out of the vial, curling into the air a little before descending into Castiel’s lips. The grace danced about the dying angel’s pinkish lips. The grace drifted into Castiel cautiously at first. After the first few wisps made their way in, the essence drove into Castiel. 

 

Immediately, the angel glowed blue. A wave of green, murky light surrounded Castiel, intensifying before being expelled by the blue light. Dean watched in awe as his angel’s little grace eradicated the poison from Castiel. As the blue light grew and grew, a warmth in Dean’s heart followed the same. In his arm, rather than a painful fire, a blissful warmth resonated. 

 

And then, as quickly as it all had began, it ended, bringing Castiel back to the mattress. Color had returned to the angel’s skin, followed with a normal breathing rate and a relatively normal body temperature. Dean sighed with a smile, shifting forward to bring his hand to cup Castiel’s cheek gingerly. At the touch, the angel’s bright blue eyes shot open. 

 

The first thing Castiel felt when he woke up was strength. Then clarity. Then, a wave of relief and happiness washed over him. These last two weren’t his own emotions, causing the angel to open his eyes when he felt a familiar touch. 

 

“Dean?” 

 

The said hunter beamed. “Hello Cas.”

 

Castiel registered his conditions. The fire and the burns were gone. Warmth and happiness replaced them. “Is thi—?”

 

“Your grace?” Dean asked, not even waiting for an answer. “Yea, buddy. It is.” A stronger wave of happiness washed over the angel. 

 

“You’re happy.”

 

“Yeah,” Dean said with a nodded. He brought his hand down to the angel’s shoulder, giving it a small, reassuring, loving squeeze. “I’m happy.”

 

Castiel shook his head. “I-i don’t understand.”

 

“You’re better, Cas,” Dean explained easily. “That’s enough to make me happy.”

 

Castiel blinked, gazing at his best friend lovingly. Another emotion from Dean washed over him, a strange, stronger, but more sincere form of happiness. It was unfamiliar but comforting, and frankly easy to return. The angel smiled and relaxed into the bed. 

 

_“Dean Winchester is saved,”_ In his mind, a prayer rang forth. _Dean Winchester is saved, eh? Cas you dumbass, you better be the one saved this time._

 

 

 

 

The following morning, the three Winchesters and Eric woke up to a bright bunker. Sure, the lighting was the same, but the ambiance was different, lighter, brighter. 

 

When woken up by Sam, Eric had jumped in excitement. Behind him Castiel and Dean were waiting, ready to make their way down the stairs and into the kitchen. 

 

“Cas, are you okay?” Eric asked on the way down. The angel smiled and reached to pat the boy reassuringly. 

 

“Yes. I am,” Castiel replied. “Are you happy?”

 

The question prompted the memory of Sam from the night before. After Dean had come into the clearing to tell them that Castiel was fine and resting, the younger hunter had livened up incredibly. With just one look at Eric, he had excitedly jumped to the opportunity to expose the child to the wonders of movies and popcorn galore. Sam didn’t have to think twice to celebrate their victory with Eric. 

 

“Yea,” Eric said, looking up at Sam. “I am.” 

 

“Good,” Dean commented, lightly pushing everyone faster towards the clearing. “Now, let’s make my stomach happy and eat.”

 

 

 

 

Christmas morning was a blessing in the bunker. It flew by quickly. The movies from the night before carried over to the morning, attracting an audience of four rather than only two. Dean and Sam watched as Castiel happily interacted with Eric, the angel basking in genuine and bright smiles. 

 

“Thank you,” Eric said. “Thank you for a family on Christmas.”

 

Castiel hugged the kid, not wanting to let go. Eric held on just as tight. “If you are ever in need of anything, please call,” the angel reminded, pointing at the slips with their primary contacts.

 

The kid grinned gleefully. “I will.” He turned to Sam and Dean. “Thank you. This was the best Christmas I’ve ever had.”

 

“It’s probably a topper for me, too,” Sam answered, remembering the vacant, absent Christmases he had. 

 

Dean nodded in agreement. “Same here.” Walking forward to lead the kid into the car, Dean waved at Castiel and Sam as he made his way to the driver’s seat. Eric waved as well. 

 

Before starting the ignition, Dean froze, giving Castiel another once over. The angel was happy—pointedly sad that Eric was leaving—but happy. And well. Dean looked down at Eric. 

 

“Listen, kid,” He said, turning the key. The Impala roared. “Thanks for taking care of him.”

 

Eric waved it off. “It’s nothing. I’m happy I could help. Castiel is really nice, like an angel.”

 

Dean laughed. “That’s one way to put it.”

 

“Dean?” Eric spoke. 

 

“Hmm?”

 

“Take care of him.”

 

Turning to look into the smaller, younger green eyes, Dean let out a breath. His lips quirked up. 

 

“I plan on it.”

 

 

 

 

Back at the bunker, Castiel sat back in his nook, reopening his research from a few days prior. The angel looked out in the distance. 

 

_Fire and burns._

 

_Warmth and security._

 

_Happiness._

 

“Dean Winchester will be saved,” the angel muttered with a soft smile ghosting his lips. “I will make sure of it.”

**Author's Note:**

> honestly, i know the end could use improvement. im burned out from nanowrimo but hey, i tried. there isnt a set plot or anything bc this follows the whole progression where cas is struggling and lost bc of his grace and dean is in the same boat bc of the mark. so if things are fast or like alsdjlaksdj, then take it in that sense plz lol
> 
> you can visit my tumblr at pen-light.tumblr.com. with nanowrimo out of the way, i plan to get started on planning next year's fics. i've got something cooking for the dean cas big bang, so let's hope i approach that better :D
> 
> happy holidays


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